“Well, I’m glad my little girl didn’t snatch and push. It’s better to go without than to take from other people. That’s ugly.” Ugly. Being naughty was just that. Doing ugly things. Being good was being beautiful like Mamma. She wanted to be like her mother. Sitting up there and being good felt delicious. And the smooth cream with the milk running under it, thin and cold, was delicious too. Suddenly a thought came rushing at her. There was God and there was Jesus. But even God and Jesus were not more beautiful than Mamma. They couldn’t be. “You mustn’t say things like that, Hatty; you mustn’t, really. It might make something happen.” “Oh, no, it won’t. You don’t suppose they’re listening all the time.” Saying things like that made you feel good and at the same time naughty, which was more exciting than only being one or the other. But Mamma’s frightened face spoiled it. What did she think--what did she think God would do? Red campion---- At the bottom of the orchard a door in the wall opened into Black’s Lane, below the three tall elms. She couldn’t believe she was really walking there by herself. It had come all of a sudden, the thought that she _must_ do it, that she _must_ go out into the lane; and when she found the door unlatched, something seemed to take hold of her and push her out. She was forbidden to go into Black’s Lane; she was not even allowed to walk there with Annie. She kept on saying to herself: “I’m in the lane. I’m in the lane. I’m disobeying Mamma.” Nothing could undo that. She had disobeyed by just standing outside the orchard door. Disobedience was such a big and awful thing that it was waste not to do something big and awful with it. So she went on, up and up, past the three tall elms. She was a big girl, wearing black silk aprons and learning French. Walking by herself. When she arched her back and stuck her stomach out she felt like a tall lady in a crinoline and shawl. She swung her hips and made her skirts fly out. That was her grown-up crinoline, swing-swinging as she went. At the turn the cow’s parsley and rose campion began; on each side a long trail of white froth with the red tops of the campion pricking through. She made herself a nosegay. Past the second turn you came to the waste ground covered with old boots and rusted, crumpled tins. The little dirty brown house stood there behind the rickety blue palings; narrow, like the piece of a house that has been cut in two. It hid, stooping under the ivy bush on its roof. It was not like the houses people live in; there was something queer, some secret, frightening thing about it. The man came out and went to the gate and stood there. _He_ was the frightening thing. When he saw her he stepped back and crouched behind the palings, ready to jump out. She turned slowly, as if she had thought of something. She mustn’t run. She must _not_ run. If she ran he would come after her.